A smile and a song used to mean much more

Ever get dragged into the past through music? Not long ago, I happened upon a Disney tune online that instantly transported me back to my earliest years with 33 1/3 rpm Disney story records in their colorful jackets that featured plot synopses and scenes from the Disney movies.

My older sister and I so cherished those recordings we nearly wore them out, looking at the pictures and accidentally scratching the LPs trying to play them on our family’s hi-fi stereo without adult supervision. We adored them, especially Snow White – that’s why catching a snippet of her warbling a tune recently riveted my attention.

“With a smile and a song,” I sang along with Adriana Caselotti’s1937 falsetto that could have belonged to one of the Munchkins the world met two years later as Judy Garland followed the Yellow Brick Road to full-fledged stardom before turning down a darker, addictive path.

“When you smile and sing, everything is in tune and it’s spring. And life flows along, with a smile and a song,” the lyricist concluded. Normally I don’t quote Snow White, as my outlook on life is closer to that of Ron White, minus the tequila, a stogie and a side of tater salad. When I open my mouth to sing, birds have never twittered around me and small animals are rarely moved to dance.

But positive power can be found in shared and inspirational song. In our nation’s not so distant history, the collective singing of uplifting songs with other Americans was an important part of social discourse. I’m not just talking the perfunctory, hors d’ oeuvres first verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner” being sung prior to the main course of a sporting event, but multiple-verse songs sung together as an expected activity at family and social occasions to increase a group’s camaraderie and unify its purpose.

In case you think I’m making this up, I’ll cite some examples. I own several vintage and antique song books purposely designed for community singing. The forward to the 1942 ALL-AMERICAN SONG BOOK, a community songbook published by Robbins Music Corporation (“for schools, homes, clubs and community singing”) says, “In this book you will find nearly half a hundred popular-standard songs that we believe will have lasting appeal . . . and diversified selections of standard songs of the past that have already become a part of our national heritage.

“We sincerely hope the ALL-AMERICAN SONG BOOK will fulfill its purpose, which is to enable all Americans to give expression to our Way of Life through songs that do express American life as it is today.”

Historically, citizens of our nation joined together and sang about shared values, which indicates we had some. Being on the same page in a song book helped keep people from all walks of life on a similar page in life. Among the songs in the ALL-AMERICAN collection were “America,” “Blest Be The Tie That Binds,” and “Home Sweet Home.” Very faith-, family- and country-oriented tunes.

Similarly, the introduction page of Rodeheaver’s 1928 SOCIABILITY SONGS song book, subtitled “Songs for everyone,” addressed the importance of communal singing and bore Nixon Waterman’s sentiments, “If I knew you and you knew me – I’m sure that we would differ less and clasp our hands in friendliness.”

SOCIABILITY SONGS contains patriotic, religious and folk songs, with practical suggestions for structuring successful sing-a-longs. An earlier book, UNCLE SAM’S SCHOOL SONGS (1897), describes its content as “patriotic, ethical, instructive, humorous and processional in character,” with a “pure and elevating” tone.

The publishers state, “A wise man once said, ‘Let me write the songs of a nation, and I care not whom makes its laws.’ We believe that the use of UNCLE SAM’S SCHOOL SONGS in the schools of our land will prove a most valuable aid in the development of the highest type of American citizenship.” I’ll sing to that. National solidarity.

It’s too bad coming together in commonality is now regarded as old-fashioned. After all, those songs books were published before our society was enlightened by modern technology, social media and critical race theory. But just maybe what’s called for is actually much simpler: a smile and a song.

Proper footwear needed to step into the fray

My dad grew up in a farming family of modest means where he was the next to youngest of seven children. Most of what he wore ended up being hand-me-downs, usually from one of his older brothers who were a decade or more older and much leaner built than he and his younger brother. It virtually guaranteed none of my dad’s wardrobe would either fit correctly or be in style, even in an era when styles did not change as rapidly.

With one “good” outfit to his name, my dad would immediately change out of it into work clothes when he’d get home from school and get busy farming. He never made mention of pajamas or had any use for robes, so I am left to presume he and his siblings must have run around naked when not wearing school or work clothing, which would have gotten pretty cold during Michigan winters, especially during his earliest years, when his family still relied on an outhouse, with chamber pots on standby for overnight and inclement weather use. Dad also made no mention of what he wore to football and baseball practice, which makes me think it was either school-supplied gym clothes, or he again went naked. He gave no alternative explanation.

This humbling, make-do existence insured my father grew up humble. He never expected much, asked for much, or complained about not having much. It’s just how things were and he was used to it. Most of us could stand to tear a page from his playbook – provided the page wasn’t emergency-used in the outhouse, as comparatively less would feel like more and we’d all be happier at the end of the day, me included.

By the time I came along, my father’s footwear was still as spartan as the clothing of his youth. He owned a pair of work boots for field work, rubber boots for barnyard wear, some circa 1970 black leather, round-toed cowboyish boots to wear in public (although he sometimes embarrassed us by running errands in his aromatic rubber boots) and black wingtip shoes for attending funerals and dancing – mostly separate occasions.

My father never owned a pair of tennis shoes because leisure was not part of his vocabulary, even after my mother purchased him a leisure suit in the late 1970s so he would feel humiliated and emasculated along with the rest of America’s men. He later adopted slippers only because they were quicker to don than boots in order to add wood to the basement furnace.

I think my father’s basic, lackluster wardrobe was the catalyst for my developing an interest in funky footwear. But similar to the antiques and vintage household items I own, what covers my feet must be both fun and functional. Here are some favorites that probably have my no-nonsense father turning over in his grave:

• Rieker black and gray WWI-style (Gen. Pershing-approved design) leather trench boots with newsprint tops. The German shoemaker’s anti-stress technology combines comfortability and modern-day trench foot protection for wading through pandemics and politics.

• Dansko high-gloss brown clogs sporting words of affirmation in bold, gold cursive. It’s refreshing to look down and be reminded to breathe, live boldly, pay it forward, take a stand, dare, share joy, be your word, etc. The shoes claim there’s still hope despite the world becoming increasingly constricted and confusing,

• Keen mixed-medium, highly-breathable Mary Janes fashioned with contrasting fabrics: gray wool herringbone material meets lime green, orange and yellow Aztec-design fabric, complemented with camouflage straps. They’re sturdy-soled proof that even the most divergent factions can unite in cohesion.

• Berne Mev high-wattage, solid canvas, Velcro-closure shoes that look like someone magically waved a wand and turned a varsity jacket into footwear, complete with stitched-on chenille names, numbers and emblems. They scream team and teamwork. Go us (U.S.).

• Icon Statue of Liberty shoes purchased before U.S. immigration became a free-for-all funded by citizen taxpayers who receive less respect and have fewer civil liberties than those to whom the government hands out freedom tickets and handouts like parade candy.

Sorry, Dad, I have no real reason for owning these funkily functional shoes except that disparate times call for disparate footwear measures.

Last mother holdout on owning an ice-maker

“We’re out of ice – again!” announced my son, withdrawing a filthy, greedy paw from the freezer top of our refrigerator. He had encountered an empty ice bin upon walking into our kitchen, tracking in along with him the mud of multiple cornfields from another county where he’d spent the day monitoring corn crop conditions.

“And why do you think that is?” I asked. “It’s impossible to keep up with the rate at which you burn through ice.” This is an ongoing, long-standing argument. Predictably, I knew exactly how he would respond. He did not disappoint.

“This wouldn’t be an issue if we had an ice-maker,” he parried, experienced verbal swordsman that he is. Yup. I note we could substitute for “ice-maker” the words “dishwasher” or “generator” or “central air conditioner” or any other modern convenience he swears the absence of in his childhood home has created extreme deprivation conditions during the first two decades of his life.

According to my son, the state of being ice-maker-less is definitely the oldest and deepest method his mother has inflicted to not only inconvenience, but to cause him psychic wounding. Just where might he be at this juncture in life if only he’d had all the devices everyone else has?! Why, he would be hands-down the most successful person around if those same hands were not prone to encountering an empty ice bin. Duh.

“Who used the last of the ice?” I thrust back at him. He said nothing at first because he knows I have him dead to rights, but later re-approached me from a more strategic angle. “I guess I assumed that as manager of the house you’d be better at keeping on top of things.”

He wasn’t entirely kidding. Despite his intimate personal knowledge that I’m a single mom who works multiple jobs and must take care of everything house, grounds, logistical and financial, my son resents that I never completely get it together on the homefront. He makes sure I know that his someday wife will get to stay at home with their someday kids. Bully for him. May his earning power make it possible.

You’d think such well-developed future plans might inspire his keeping better tabs on the ice situation, but perhaps there’s no need, as emptying ice cube trays is a task he’ll delegate to his wife. Wait, I mean to their ice-maker, located on their someday counter next to their high-tech coffee maker (which I also don’t have), which would automatically take care of ice because it would never break or wear out, like my appliances. Undoubtedly, he will have all top-of-the-line appliances and household furnishings, including bedding that never needs to be laundered.

This would be more interesting if it weren’t so condescendingly annoying. In the interim, am I the only blasted person in our household who can make ice?! Honestly, how hard is it? Back when I lived alone, pre-children, I managed to consistently stay on top of the ice cube situation. And I’m someone who goes through a lot of ice – which incentivizes me to always keep my eye on the level of the ice cube bin into which I empty the trays. It’s not genetic engineering, but does require paying attention, which apparently is much more difficult.

It’s not like all we have are a couple of smallish ice cube trays. No, we’ve got two full-sized blue plastic trays that produce regular-sized ice cubes and two jumbo white trays that freeze water into small squares that easily fit into water bottles.

I don’t hold my daughter as responsible for ice replacement because she doesn’t usually burn through cubes at my son’s rate – unless she’s on a smoothie kick, when anything and everything in the fridge/freezer becomes fair game.

So I tell my son I’ll eventually purchase an ice-maker – as my first official act of financial independence after he moves out, thereby insuring if he ever ends up in therapy he will have something concrete to share regarding how bad he had it and how horrible his mom was while he was growing up. Until them, I need a strong shot of something on the rocks. Too bad we’re out of ice!

Differentiating the “Wicked” from the good

Several years and a husband ago, my (then) spouse surprised me with tickets to the musical “Wicked” when it was playing in Toledo. As a musician and someone who grew up on a steady diet of movie musicals and live theatre, I was very excited about seeing the show.

In my youth I had played the Wicked Witch of the West in a school production of “The Wizard of Oz,” so I was overjoyed to see my character had claimed a spot on center stage. I purposely didn’t do any reading ahead like I usually do about the musical’s plot, songs or production numbers because I wanted the occasion to be a totally fresh experience.

On the way to the show we had a really good lunch and visited a huge antique mall where I found a jacket the exact size, style and fabric of one of my favorite, quirky vintage Sigrid Olsen jackets that I desperately needed to replace. Hitting both the lunch and jacket jackpots seemed good vibrations that would carry over into showtime. How shallowly lucky could one gal be?!

Not as lucky as she thought. The show was nothing like I expected. Wait, I hadn’t allowed myself to expect anything, so the production couldn’t have violated my expectations. But surprisingly, I didn’t like it at all, including the music. Truthfully, I had difficulty even tolerating it, which surprised me.

I forced myself to sit still through the production when I really wanted to leave. Had I been alone, I would have. The next best thing was to subtly put my left hand over my left “good” ear (I am completely deaf in my right) and tune out the singing and dialogue to the extent possible (the way “Wicked” fans reading this are likely tuning me out right now). I also took a ridiculously long bathroom break during show’s second half.

My husband, who was feeling especially proud of himself for coming up with the whole date idea, asked on the way out of the theatre how I had liked the show, fully expecting me to sing its and his praises. But alas, sitting through it had apparently disempowered my ability to fake enthusiasm.I lied and said I thought it was okay.

“Just okay?!” he asked, followed by listing what he viewed as its high points.

“I truly appreciate the work and expense you put into planning this outing,” I countered. “I really had a great time with you today.” I knew to tread lightly.

“But . . . ?” he cross-examined.

I was absolutely caught between a rock and a hard place. He’d put together a great date and had spent a lot of money on the tickets. Sidestepping his question was not an option. I also knew being anything less-than-thrilled over the musical would be taken personally and perceived as ingratitude. Unfortunately, my ability to manufacture socially-appropriate lies failed me due to my disdain for “Wicked.” After a terminally awkward silence, I admitted I hadn’t liked the show.

The drive back from Toledo felt much longer than the trip there on account of the stony silence that ensued. Perhaps I should have tried to further explain myself, but to do so would have turned the hole I had already dug for myself into a full-fledged grave. I wisely put down my shovel and kept my mouth shut.

Instead, I used the trip home to analyze just what it was about “Wicked” that had completely turned me off, instead of empathetically relating to its central character, “Elphaba,” whose trouble youth had allegedly turned her into a notorious, ill-fated wicked witch.

The “Wicked” plot felt to me like a century of writers about Oz and its inhabitants had excused some very inexcusable wicked behavior on Elphaba’s part by creating a past they reasoned allowed her to justify an unlimited amount of misguided, retributory actions for past wrongs. That rubbed me the wrong way.

Revenge set to music seems comparatively primitive beside grace, mercy and redemption, especially in light of a Savior who rose three days following a brutal death and directed his followers to share the Good News. To this day politically, I still can’t tolerate Wicked.